


Phantom Limbs

by EmilianaDarling



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Dark Imagery, Dream Sequence, Emotional Repression, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, Mild Gore, Mind Manipulation, Missing Scene, Multi, Universe Alteration, Unsettling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:37:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3891472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilianaDarling/pseuds/EmilianaDarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That’s right, pal,” comes another voice from behind him, easy and confident and lilting with an audible smile, and it feels as though the breath is punched right out of Steve’s lungs. He stiffens, wrenches himself away from the reassuring warmth of Peggy’s arms, spins around –-</p>
<p>And apparently it isn’t enough for one love of Steve’s life to be here with him tonight, because now Bucky’s standing there too.<br/><br/><i>[In which Bucky makes an appearance in Steve's 'Age of Ultron' dream sequence.]</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Phantom Limbs

**Author's Note:**

> Despite the fact that I did enjoy _Age of Ultron_ , the fact that there was no proper Winter Soldier cameo definitely struck me as a missed opportunity. I spent a bit of time daydreaming about the different ways he could have been included before this idea arrived in my head fully-formed, and I've been eager to share it with you guys ever since. Please note that while the dream sequence in this story is inspired by the film, there are definitely a few key differences between them. 
> 
> Thank you as always to Stark Panda, who is an excellent human. (Without her this fic would have approximately eighty thousand bajillion more "that"s than is strictly necessary.)
> 
> This story is dedicated to Katie, whom I adore. <3

The dance hall smells like cigarettes and cheap beer, the kind that always ends up slopped all over the place in these kinds of establishments. The hardwood floor is sticky beneath Steve’s feet.

And it’s… strange, because Steve can’t quite seem to put a finger on where he is. The stage is the same as one he performed on in Milwaukee during the USO tour, but the tables are straight out of a joint in New York so ritzy he and Bucky had only ever been able to sneak in there once. The chandelier looks just like one in a bombed-out hotel he and the Commandos came across in Paris, and he’s almost positive that some of the chipped plates, mugs and glasses on the tables are the same ones he and Bucky used to have in their kitchen back in Brooklyn.

It feels familiar and normal and _wrong_ all at once, as though he’s stepped into a place where he doesn’t belong. Steve furrows his eyebrows, taking it all in – and it’s only when he looks down at himself that he realizes he’s wearing his old uniform.

There are people moving on the dance floor. Steve knows they’re there: can feel their movement as they dance around him, the throng of warm bodies and the distant chime of delighted laughter. The problem is that he can’t _see_ them, at least not all of the time: they keep moving just out of his line of sight, there and then gone again in the blink of an eye. Leaving him standing alone on the great expanse of the dance floor.

As though from very far away, Steve can hear the sound of muted dance music filtering through the air. It’s light and bouncy, all clarinet and drums and brass – but it’s almost as though he’s listening to it underwater. Like a radio that can’t quite pick up the right station.

There’s something about the way the red light seeps into every part of the room, like some kind of boudoir or the sort of nightclub Bucky sometimes used to drag him to for a laugh. It’s oppressive, makes the walls close in around him and the seemingly-empty hall itself feel so much smaller than it actually is.

_There’s somewhere I need to be_ , Steve thinks distantly, staring up at the glowing red lights that line the dance hall. But when he tries to follow the thought to its conclusion, to conjure up _where_ he needs to be right now instead, he finds himself grasping at thin air.

Steve frowns and turns around, a persistent nagging in the pit of his stomach – only to be confronted with a hall that is absolutely brimming with people. The music seems to roar up properly around him, aggressively upbeat and lively. Soldiers in uniform and men in suits and dames with bright red lips wearing different-coloured dresses, all of them dancing with a single-minded mania that almost seems to border on violence. He flinches at the bright white flash of a camera bulb only a few feet away, absently notices a few GIs picking a fight with each other in the corner.

Steve stares at the hall full of dancing couples, transfixed and still frowning in confusion at something he can’t quite place, and then –

“We can finally have our dance,” comes a woman’s voice from behind him, warm and accented and so familiar it _hurts_ , and the bottom falls out of his stomach because he knows that voice. Has committed every word she’s ever said to him to memory, mentally running his fingers over every conversation like a cherished treasure.

Steve remembers her voice _tight and unimpressed_ when people talked down to her and _soft and earnest_ when she comforted him in the blown-out remains of the bar. He remembers the lightness of her laughter and the way she sounded when she smiled, remembers the terrifying way she could dole out threats like nobody’s business.

He remembers the way she sounded over the microphone the day he crashed the _Valkyrie_ , her voice cracking and unsteady as he sped down faster and faster towards the ice.

Steve’s heart is hammering in his chest, his stomach sinking with grief.

He turns, and Peggy is standing there.

The first thing he thinks is _god, she’s beautiful_ because she is, she _is_ and he can’t help it. Hair pulled back and her lips a dark red a look of desperate happiness on her face, and right now Peggy is beautiful in a way he never got to see. Her shoulders are free of the weight of war and there’s something almost _carefree_ about the way she’s holding herself, her expression open and wanting and her eyes fixed firmly on him.

_This isn’t right_ , a part of his brain thinks in stunned incomprehension. _This isn’t… it’s not…_

But it’s impossible to think when his head is full of fog and he can’t quite find the words and Peggy’s just _standing_ there like that, gorgeous and familiar and so solid and real in front of him. The two of them are alone amidst the crowd, the only two people in the room that matter, and it’s okay that Steve can’t speak because Peggy does it for him.

“The war is over, Steve,” she says softly, and he can hear every word as clearly as though she were whispering into his ear. He stares at her, heart breaking and mending itself all at once. Something wavers in her expression, a shudder of desperate emotion that makes his chest ache. “We can go _home_.”

He stares at her, mystified, and it’s as though a part of him that’s been missing for so, so long is slotting effortlessly back into place. Something integral and vital; a badly-stitched up wound finally being put to rights.

_I love you_ , Steve wants to say, the words catching in his throat. He runs his eyes over the curve of her cheek, the long line of her neck. _I missed you._

And –

_This is how it was **supposed** to be. _

This is how it _is_ , his brain corrects, something content and at ease and finally at _peace_ settling heavily in his chest. He drags his gaze desperately over the red of her lips, her imploring brown eyes.

A heartbeat passes and they’re dancing, Peggy curling into his arms as though they were made to fit together. Another heartbeat and they’re staring into each other’s’ eyes, the softness of her waist warm and real under his palm, and she even _smells_ the same as he remembers.

Steve takes a shuddering breath, opens his mouth to speak –

“That’s right, pal,” comes another voice from behind him, easy and confident and lilting with an audible smile, and it feels as though the breath is punched right out of Steve’s lungs. He stiffens, wrenches himself away from the reassuring warmth of Peggy’s arms, spins around –

And apparently it isn’t enough for one love of Steve’s life to be here with him tonight, because now Bucky’s standing there too.

Bucky’s there, he’s right _there_ , wearing his formal uniform and a crooked grin on his face, staring at Steve as though he’s the most important thing in the world. It’s the same getup he wore when he took Steve to the World’s Fair the night before he shipped out. Bucky’s hands are in his pockets and his posture is relaxed and easy, his hat tilted ever-so-slightly on his head.

He looks whole and happy and sure of himself, clean shaven and pale blue eyes shining, and Steve knows instinctively that this is a Bucky Barnes who has never seen war. Who has remained untouched by that ugliness; who has never been left twisted up and hollowed out by forces outside of his control.

_You died_ , Steve thinks numbly, and grappling with the thought is like struggling through muddy terrain. _You died and then – and then you didn’t, and –_

Bucky grins at him, and all at once Steve feels about sixteen years old again. Short and skinny and slightly in awe of his best friend, even when they’re giving each other hell. Even when it’s the two of them against the world and damn all the consequences.

And it’s ridiculous, but Steve can’t stop staring: at the healthy lines of Bucky’s face, at the hint of swagger in the way he holds himself. At his left arm hanging at his side like always – nothing special about it, just an arm, and Steve doesn’t quite know why that particular detail feels so burningly significant inside his head.

After a few moments, Bucky takes a step towards him.

“It’s the end of the line, Steve,” Bucky declares, his smile faltering a little as he speaks. He raises his eyebrows a little and tightens his lips, and in the dim light it almost looks as though his eyes are shining. “Time for all of us to go home.”

There’s a beat where Bucky glances over Steve’s shoulder, sharing a warm look with someone Steve realizes must be Peggy, and Steve takes a few stumbling steps back so he can see the two of them at once. So he can take them both in because he can’t wrap his head around it, he can’t –

The two of them stand out like twin pinpricks of light in a darkened room: Peggy with her sweet face and the pale blue dress that seems to hug every inch of her just right; Bucky all wrapped up in his dress uniform  with an achingly earnest smile on his face.

Steve’s stomach twists, insides churning. For a strange moment the dance hall music seems to build up sharply around him, building in a crescendo that roars in his ears before it dies back down again, relegated to the background once more.

And it’s – it’s too much. Too _much_. Everything he’s ever wanted standing in front of him like a promise, like a _guarantee_ , and all he wants to do is wrap his arms around Peggy and bury his face into Bucky’s neck and never _ever_ let the two of them go.

It’s like an open wound being closed up, like part of him that died a long time ago is finally coming back to life, and he doesn’t know how he even lasted a day with the two of them gone.

“I don’t,” Steve croaks, swallowing hard and glancing back and forth between the two of them. He doesn’t know where to look, what to say; can’t stop himself from desperately drinking the sight of them in. “Peggy – Bucky, I don’t –”

He doesn’t get to find out what he might’ve said, though, because all at once something _shifts_ almost imperceptibly around them.

There’s a moment where the air around them seems to stutter and snag, a beat of horrible silence as though all the sound has been sucked out of the room. Something’s changing, something’s wrong but Peggy and Bucky keep staring at him, twin unwavering expressions on their faces, and then –

And then the music swells around them, discordant and bursting with static.

There are couples spinning around them on the dance floor, their laughter growing louder and louder and madder and madder. There’s the loud crash of a bomb going off and Steve spins around with his heart in his throat and adrenaline pounding in his ears, every instinct he has screaming at him to _run fight kill protect **fight**_.

The people on the dance floor are grinning like the devil as their clothes soak through with red-purple blood, and in the corners of the room he can see the slumped bodies of wounded soldiers wailing for their mothers. There’s a fella cuddling his girl on his lap as blood oozes out of the half a dozen bullet wounds in his chest and arms, a spray of gore across the lower half of the girl’s face as she giggles down at him.

Steve turns back around, sick to his stomach and all of his nerves firing at once. He surges forward, goes to grab Peggy and Bucky by the arm and _move_ , get them _out_ , get them the hell out of this place –

Instead, what he sees in front of him makes him falter as horror grows steadily in the pit of his stomach.

The two of them are standing still standing there, stock-still and unmoving – only now there’s sickly-red blood gushing slowly from the mangled stump that is all that remains of Bucky’s left arm. The sleeve of his green coat is soaked through and there’s a growing pool of blood on the floor where it’s dangling at his side. Steve thinks he can see a hint of pale white bone poking out amidst the gore.

The near-manic grin is still firmly fixed on Bucky’s face.

“ _Bucky_!” Steve shouts, eyes wide and horror burning at the back of his throat like bile.

Steve tries to lurch forward – needs to put pressure on the wound, needs to stop the goddamn bleeding – but when he tries to run to his friend’s side he realizes with a dull shock that _his feet are stuck to the floor_.

He struggles against the invisible force keeping him in place, panic bubbling up in his chest. Tries to yank his feet off the ground but he can’t do it, _can’t move_. Can only look helplessly on as the blood from Bucky’s arm continues to drain out onto the dance floor.

“Bucky,” says Steve feebly, swallowing hard. His eyes are burning as he strains weakly against whatever’s holding him in place, trying and failing to physically hurl himself forward in an attempt to get to his friend. He’s going to cry; he’s going to be sick. “ _Bucky_.”

“We can go home now, Stevie,” says Bucky reassuringly, tilting his head to one side. He smiles, and Steve flinches as more blood oozes out from between his teeth.

Around them, people are dancing with splintered bones and blown-off faces. The slick mess of red blood is trailing underfoot as they writhe, heedless of the smearing gore beneath them. There are women with fingermark bruises around their necks, soldiers who are so emaciated they look like skulls with yellowed skin stretched over bone. 

It’s damn near impossible for Steve to tear his eyes away from the remains of Bucky’s arm (from the wound that’s killing him, it’s _killing him_ ) until he catches sight of something out of the corner of his eye. A flicker of movement, a hint of something _off_ – and Steve realizes with dawning horror that something’s wrong with Peggy too.

He twists around to look at her, scanning her up and down for several long seconds before he fully registers that Peggy looks more _worn_ than he remembers her. She looks tired, the lines of her face deepeningand her posture growing more and more hunched and –

She looks old, Steve realizes distantly, and he feels an involuntary sob catch in his throat at the knowledge of what that means. Barely a moment passes until there are streaks of grey in her hair, until there are deep lines around her mouth and eyes.

The longer he looks at her the more frail she seems to grow, and before long she glances up, catches his gaze – and it’s as though she’s seeing him for the very first time.

She narrows her eyes, an expression of immense emotion unfurling over her wrinkled face.

“Steve?” Peggy whispers in disbelieving wonder, her eyes widening with recognition. Her voice sounds feeble and shaky to his ears. Her hair is snowy white and brittle against her cheeks. After a moment her mouth falls open, lips pale and chapped and unadorned, and it feels as though what’s left of his world has been pulled out from under his feet. “You’re _alive_.”

_Not again. Please, please not again._

“Peggy,” Steve breathes, utterly incapable of saying anything else.

The pool of blood beneath Peggy’s feet has grown enough that it’s soaking into her shoes. Beside her, Bucky’s smile starts to flicker into something gaunter, something crueler. Peggy doesn’t seem to notice, tightening her lips as her eyes begin to fill with tears. 

“It’s been so long,” Peggy croaks, and the devastation apparent in every line of her face. “So long… so long…”

All around them the discordant music grows louder and harsher, the red lights casting a bloody pall over all of their skin. Both of them are changing in front of his eyes, Peggy’s skin turning paper-thin as she shrinks and withers in front of him. There’s unkempt hair in Bucky’s eyes now, his brow furrowed and his mouth a hard line and something metal glinting against his side. 

And all at once Steve looks into their eyes and sees absolutely no recognition whatsoever; not the slightest hint that either of them has any idea who he is. Peggy’s eyes are polite and unassuming and Bucky’s are cold and empty, and that’s it, he can’t do it, he can’t _do_ this anymore. 

With a desperate heave Steve wrenches himself away from the pair of them and stumbles backwards, too panicked to realize that his feet are no longer stuck to the floor. He stumbles and fall, his back hitting the ground with a solid _thud_. The red-drenched room spins around him as he kicks himself backwards, tries to _get away_. Tries to put as much space between them as he can like a child running from the night.

Steve’s breaths are coming hard and fast and the world is reeling and there’s frenzied laughter on the air, the sound of static and screeching music pounding in his ears as the dance hall crumples down around him.

He squeezes his eyes shut —

 

 

—only to wrench them open again a moment later, desperately sucking in a ragged breath of air so badly needed it makes his chest ache.

For a moment, the comparative lack of movement and sound is so jarring he can’t think of anything else. He lies there for a few long moments, breathing hard and staring up at the industrial-looking ceiling above him. It’s dark in here, only a few fluorescent lights to cut through the gloom. Something sharp and jagged is digging into the small of his back.

After a few moments, Steve distantly takes note of the fact that his skin is drenched in cold sweat, that his head is pounding. He’s lying on a pile of scrap metal, discarded and left here by someone or something. Distantly, part of his brain wonders how long he’s been here for.

He bites his bottom lip, pushes down the noises that are threatening to escape from his mouth. 

Eventually Steve becomes aware of shouts and screams coming from another part of the building, the far-off sounds of destruction ringing faintly in his ears.

No – not a building. A ship.

They’re off the coast of Southern Africa.

The girl. Her brother.

Ultron.

He is with the Avengers, and it is 2015.

He is with the Avengers, and none of what he saw was real.

Steve doesn’t know how long he’s been out for. For all he knows, anyone could be on their way to find him. He has to remember that, has to stay quiet. Has to stay focused and solid and _strong_ for his team, has to find them and make sure they’re all right.

Has to get back up on his feet and walk back into the fray like he does every goddamn time.

Steve’s eyes are burning so he squeezes them shut, screws up his face and _breathes_ for a few long moments. Short, quick breaths from between clenched teeth until the worst of it’s out of his system. Until he can get ahold of himself enough to slowly push himself up from the ground.

_You can think about it later_ , Steve tells himself as he pushes himself up onto his feet, forcing himself to ignore the protests from his aching body. He steadfastly ignores the way his insides feel deadened and hollow, doesn’t permit himself to linger on dreams and memories and people who aren’t here but hurt all the same.

It won’t do a damn thing to help him right now.

_Once this is over. You can think about it then._  

He stumbles off to find the rest of his team.

 

 

 

**The End**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. If you have enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a comment; I would truly appreciate it.
> 
> Please also feel free to join me over on [tumblr](http://emilianadarling.tumblr.com), where my startlingly intense Captain America obsession is making a serious comeback.


End file.
